Chapter 3 #2
‘Just met your new best friend,’ I say. ‘Apparently you two have a lot in common.’
‘Bertie?’ Dylan sighs, swapping her suitcase from one hand to another. ‘He’s nice. He, um, definitely has a lot to say.’
‘Really? He didn’t seem all that interested in talking to me.’
Jude snorts and I shoot her a grin. She adds, ‘He must’ve used up all his charm on Dylan.’
Dylan shrugs. ‘He just wanted someone to chat to. I’m used to that kind of thing anyway, from working at a coffee shop.’
‘I think Bertie’s on the hunt for more than just a chat,’ I say, nodding towards him. He’s looking our way as he walks, clearly trying to catch Dylan’s eye, until he bumps into
David. ‘He’s on the prowl.’
‘Takes one to know one,’ Jude says.
‘Well, exactly,’ I reply. Dylan winces when her case gets caught on a stone and I reach an arm towards her. ‘Do you want a
hand?’
‘No thanks,’ she replies, at the same time Jude says, ‘I do.’
I roll my eyes but take Jude’s bag anyway. My arm aches the second I pull it from the gravel to the wide paved path heading up past the barn. ‘Jesus Christ, what do you have in here?’
‘We’re here for six weeks; I wanted clothing options.’
‘You’re not helping those allegations about influencers being materialistic.’
‘You post a lot of fashion content, right? You’ll need all this stuff for your job,’ Dylan says with a lift of her chin. She’s
trying to back Jude up, which is impossibly endearing, because if there’s anyone who can stand up for herself, it’s Jude Lamarra.
‘My clothes are boring. Everything goes with everything.’
‘Stop, your outfit’s cute,’ Jude says, and Dylan smiles softly.
‘I agree,’ I butt in. Both women glance my way, Jude with an eye-roll and Dylan avoiding my gaze the second it meets hers.
Dylan lowers her voice as if she’s telling a secret. ‘I made a spreadsheet to track everything I’ve brought with me. I even
added in formulae to calculate the outfit possibilities.’
‘Oh my god,’ Jude says, grin sparkling. ‘That genuinely might be the best thing I’ve ever heard.’
Dylan’s eyes light up. ‘Maybe I’ll make one for you, as a gift.’
‘This,’ she begins, hooking her arm through Dylan’s, ‘is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.’
The thing is, I know she’s not just saying that. Part of me has always been a little jealous of the way women make friends.
No one would ever call my sister a people person, but I’ve even seen her befriend other women in bars, or at gigs, just as a result of a single compliment or shared joke. I have friends, sure, but
we’re nowhere near as close as we could be. In retrospect, that might explain why I went down the path I did, years ago.
We stop in the shadow of a small brick building and Jude darts inside without her suitcase before I’ve had the chance to blink.
‘You good to stay here with the stuff?’ I ask Dylan, before heading inside to get the keys from David’s husband.
When I step back out into the crisp air a few minutes later, the sun’s fully out and Dylan’s basking in it. She perches on her suitcase, a small smile on her face as she looks around, breathing everything in.
‘Jude already gone to her cabin?’ I ask as I approach.
Dylan’s head swivels and our eyes meet. ‘She said she wanted to shower before we all meet back up.’
I pass her the second key I was given and she holds it up to analyse the cabin name on its tag. Awyr y Wawr.
‘I won’t offend the people of Wales by trying to pronounce that,’ I say, retrieving my backpack from the floor, ‘but apparently
it means “sunrise sky”. Patrick said it’s his favourite cabin.’
I wait for her to collect her stuff, then we walk in the direction Patrick instructed, away from the cluster of smaller buildings
around the reception, which must include his and David’s cottage.
The only sounds are the low murmur of a couple talking up ahead, a bird squawking nearby, and the wheels of Dylan’s suitcase
dragging along the smooth, untarnished path.
‘This is a little quieter than I’m used to,’ Dylan says at last.
‘I can’t imagine living in London. Every time I visit Ava, it’s fun but just . . .’
‘There’s a lot going on,’ she offers. ‘It’s built for a certain type of person.’
‘And that’s you?’
Her eyes pull to the sea to our left and as she inhales, some of the tension loosens from her shoulders. ‘I suppose.’
‘Ava said you’ve lived in London your whole life.’
‘Born and raised. I’ve hardly ever left. Which must make me sound horrifically boring, especially to you. Almost twenty-five
years on this planet, spent entirely in one place.’
‘Different people prioritise different things. Sometimes you don’t even have a choice in it.’ I spin my key on its ring as
we walk. ‘And you never know, you might get the bug for seeing new places while you’re here.’
Her laugh is almost lost in the breeze. ‘I doubt it. I’m pretty good at sticking to my plans, and travelling isn’t really
part of them.’
‘Have you ever considered moving out of London?’
She doesn’t look away from the view. ‘I’m needed there.’
My attention is pulled to the two uneven rows of wooden buildings up ahead. They’d look like they’ve sprouted right from the
earth, if not for the vibrant coloured doors on each of them. The first cabins on our left and right are bigger than the others,
and every subsequent one is a slightly different mix of wood panels, tiles, brick and corrugated iron–a careful balance of
new and old, rustic and eco-friendly but not dilapidated.
We move along the main path, wind chimes singing from the eaves, and when we reach the end I glance at my hands for a split
second to figure out which way is left, per Patrick’s directions, then lead us down a short pathway to a cabin with a blue
front door that still smells faintly of paint.
‘Home sweet home.’ I turn my key in the lock and open the door, which swaps out the paint smell for something else entirely.
It’s both crisp and vaguely sweet; maybe the way you might imagine the ocean to smell, if you’d never actually been near it.
I step inside, Dylan close behind, directly into the open-plan living area and kitchen. Although, calling it ‘open plan’ implies
a level of space that the cabin doesn’t really have.
It’s longer than it is wide, with three closed doors at the end of the living area. I chuck my backpack on to the stone-coloured
sofa, which is peppered with cushions and faces a huge window offering sweeping views of the ocean. There’s a kitchenette
to our right with a few appliances and what looks like a small fridge below the counter. Dylan heads to the farmhouse sink
under the window, planting her hands on the corners of the ceramic and craning her neck to look towards the water just about
visible from this angle.
‘This is,’ I scan the room, ‘quaint.’
‘It’s a lot smaller than I thought it’d be,’ she says, running a hand along the counter.
‘That’s not a sentence I’m used to hearing,’ I say as I head further into the cabin, and there’s a sigh from behind me in response, followed by the sound of the tap briefly turning on and off. I never know why people do that. Do they assume the tap won’t work?
I try the door on the left and find a bedroom, which is mostly taken up by a large bed, a wardrobe, and yet more views of
the ocean through its massive window on the far wall. I reverse and open the door opposite; it’s the bathroom, which is pretty
basic, but clean and modern.
When I open the third door, I let out a short, surprised, ‘Ah.’
Dylan stops moving in the kitchen and asks, ‘What does “ah” mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re a bad liar.’
I close the door and step in front of it while she peers into the other two rooms. ‘I’m actually a great liar. For instance, I lied for years about liking coriander. I also lied to my parents about where I was on Christmas Eve
when I was seventeen.’
‘What’s going on, Max?’ She joins me outside the third door and, reluctantly, I step aside. When she opens it, her jaw drops
and she simply says, ‘No.’
I grimace. ‘Unfortunately, yes.’ She closes the door and opens it again. She does this twice more before I delicately peel
her fingers from the handle. ‘I hate to be the one to tell you this,’ I say in a low voice, dropping her hand by her side,
where it swings and hits her thigh with a thump, ‘but that is a cupboard.’
Behind this door is nothing but a linen closet. Shelves packed with towels, bedding and extra pillows, but, very evidently,
no second bedroom. And most importantly, no second bed.
A muscle in her jaw ticks and I have to press my lips together to keep a laugh from escaping.
‘It’s fine,’ she says, which is interesting to me, because her tone says that absolutely nothing is fine.
‘I’ll talk to the front desk. There’s probably been a mix-up and someone else has been given our cabin.’
She nods and puts on an unconvincing smile before following me back into the living area.
I spot a folder on the counter that I hadn’t noticed before, and above it, a phone on the wall.
I riffle through the folder and find the shortcut for the front desk while Dylan empties her bottle into the sink and refills it.
While I’m waiting for someone to answer the phone, she chugs her drink and then murmurs, ‘Welsh water tastes better than London
water.’
‘Silver lining,’ I say, just as Patrick picks up.